


Moondance Diner

by venom_for_free



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Atmospheric, M/M, Magic, Modern Era, One Shot, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Supernatural Elements, eerie feeling, it's 3 AM in a 24h Diner during a thunderstorm and things aren't always what they seem, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venom_for_free/pseuds/venom_for_free
Summary: Stainless steel welcomed him like an old friend. Otabek brushed his hand over the facade of the building, which should be run down with time. And yet, neon colors kept it in an eerie loop of endless youth and better memories.--or: Otabek is a regular in a 24-hour diner, where no one ever seems to talk. People around him are a little unusual, but that is surely just because it's 3 AM and the thunderstorm outside brings in the stranger people. Besides, the waiter is the most beautiful person he has ever seen. And he seems to be interested in Otabek and Otabek alone.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67





	Moondance Diner

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this for a while and I finally got to it.  
> I hope you enjoy it.

Stainless steel welcomed him like an old friend. Otabek brushed his hand over the facade of the building, which should be run down with time. And yet, neon colors kept it in an eerie loop of endless youth and better memories. He had been coming here since he started his job as a delivery boy, a good three years ago, and since then, spent more nights inside the building than in his own home. It was the curse of past midnight deliveries. Who ordered pizza at two AM? A lot of people, actually. When his shift ended at three, Otabek was often too wired to immediately go to sleep, so he sought out the one place where he could be alone and in company, all at the same time.   
  
The Moondance Diner was one of those old institutions where he felt safe and understood in a way modern times somehow often failed to provide. Located at 80 Sixth Avenue, between Grand Street and Canal Street in New York City, the diner was a refuge for everyone working night shifts. It was nestled between a bank, a drug store, and a software company, and somehow managed to look out of place and perfectly situated, simultaneously. With a white shell and blue accents, it was surprisingly muted in the middle of a roaring New York, which was exactly why Otabek enjoyed it so much. People kept to themselves. In his three years there, only three people ever talked to him, and they were all different service providers. 

He had parked his bike to the side, careful not to block people’s paths because the last thing he needed after a long and exhausting shift was his bike being towed. Otabek usually waited a moment in front of the diner to mentally drop the package of his work stress on the doorstep, but tonight it was raining, and he was already soaked from the drive. His motorcycle was one of his most beloved possessions, yes, but during nights like this, he wished he had a car to keep him safe from the downpour. Neon reflections bled into the puddles on the floor and cold fingers crept up his back, lingering before they grabbed his neck and shook Otabek with the chill only approaching winter could bring. It wasn’t there yet, but autumn in the city was a weird season, and Otabek decided not to dwell. 

When he opened the door, the bell sang. His entrance was announced to two men, sitting hunched forward in one of the corners, playing cards. They were always there—always. Otabek couldn’t be sure since no one ever talked, but he believed they were Russian from the way they acted, ate, dressed, and held themselves. Though, he wondered if it was racist to classify people according to things like that, but he couldn’t help himself; he was a naturally quiet and observant person, and his brain kept shoving things into boxes. 

There was also a couple, three tables away from his favorite spot. They, too, never talked, but they kept kissing from time to time. It was strange. To him, they looked more like siblings than lovers, but who was Otabek to judge? 

More often than not, a beautiful redhead would run the kitchen and come out to chat with the server when no one was ordering food. Somehow, her bouncy curls were always styled, her makeup sharp, and her smile dangerous, even if she worked the graveyard shifts. 

And there was the server, of course. A young man so eerily beautiful, Otabek struggled to wrap his mind around him. He was lithe and fit, graceful in a way no one should be in the middle of the night. He was a dancer, Otabek guessed. Long legs, tiny waist, strong shoulders, and clean lines in his every move. Otabek kept little stories in the back of his mind for every person in the diner, adding details once he learned more about them. 

The two men in the corner? Spies for a regime that had long since fallen. The two lovers? Romeo and Juliet, but with coffee instead of poison. Their families despite them, individually and with each other, but they keep stealing moments like this to have something in their bleary lives to look forward to. The cook was a black widow, always on the hunt for lonely souls wandering the night, looking for love they would never find at three AM because all the good people were in bed already or at home with their loved ones, not stranded in a dingy club or lonely diner. Nothing good happened after two AM, and Otabek was very well aware that he was a victim to his own deductions. He, too, was looking for something he would never get. He just hadn’t figured out yet what that was. And as for the blond man sauntered over with a grin on his lips that was probably supposed to look flirty but actually promised damnation, his story changed every night. Otabek was unable to find the perfect tale for him. 

Instead of a greeting, he positioned himself in front of Otabek and tilted his head. His grin was cocky, as was the eyebrow that twitched up, perfectly manicured, not a single hair out of order. He shook out his shoulders as if he was readying himself for a fight and Otabek kept wondering why whenever they met. As if Otabek could ever stand his ground for even a minute. Those forest eyes pulled the floor from beneath him, time and time again, and Otabek was left in shambles, trying to piece himself back together. If he ever actually heard his voice or, oh forbid, learned his _name,_ Otabek would die instantly. Somehow, he was sure of that. 

A notepad flipped open, a pen appeared in the guy’s hand—Otabek could have sworn it came out of nowhere, but it was three AM, so his usually sharp brain was dulling to a point where he wanted to rest his head on the table and listen to smooth jazz. He nodded at the guy, same order as every night, and just like every night, he didn’t write down a word. Instead, he pulled out a menu, flipped to the food selection, and gently lowered it in front of Otabek. Another one of their regular dances. 

The cook was watching them and, as always, Otabek wondered if he should break his ritual and actually order some food. But a tiny voice in his mind kept telling him it was wrong. He shouldn’t eat here. Otabek was sure it was his consciousness; he had to smell the pizza on the back of his bike all night and was now likely horrified with the sheer amount of grease surrounding him. After all, Otabek did try to eat healthily. Really. He swore. Three AM coffees were his only indulgence. And some chocolate when he was especially lonely. 

And of course, making up increasingly weird stories about strangers in a diner, but he couldn’t really be faulted for that. It wasn’t food. 

Otabek longingly stared at the pancakes. They made his stomach growl, as did the array of tiny cakes under the glass domes and in the showcases. Everything seemed fresh and perfect, even though that shouldn’t be possible. He shook his head and handed the menu back with a sad smile. There was still porridge at home. 

The server sighed overdramatically, but it was so obviously sarcastic and playful, Otabek didn’t mind. He returned behind the counter and began to make fresh coffee. Thunder cracked, lighting forming a perfect background to the skyscrapers as the heavens opened. He would be trapped here for a while. There was no chance driving in those conditions was safe. Even the noises of the old coffee machine were muted against the backdrop of mother nature raging across the city, battling what humanity created with her strong blows, taking it apart bit by bit, and ultimately, reclaiming what was always hers. He hoped she wouldn’t topple his Harley. 

Otabek watched the two men again. They seemed to have stopped playing cards. There was a chessboard between them now, but from the distance, he couldn’t tell who was winning. He didn’t want to, anyway. It demanded too much thinking. For a moment, he considered spending his waiting time on his phone, but whenever Otabek wanted to reach for it, an overwhelming sense of wrongness crawled up his spine. They were trapped in a tiny time capsule in the middle of New York. Nothing prohibited him from using modern technology, but he felt like a traitor just thinking about it. 

The two lovers were merging their heads into one another, again and again, kissing as if their tongues would fall off should they stop touching. From time to time, when exhaustion slurred his vision, it looked like they shared a body, two heads on the same creature, lost in itself. Otabek smiled; it must be wonderful to love so openly. 

The server returned, carrying the mug in his hand, enormous by restaurant standards. Sometimes Otabek swore it was as if they wanted to keep him there. After setting the coffee on Otabek’s table, he returned to the redhead, an entire conversation happening between them with not a single word. She caught him watching, so Otabek returned his attention to the window. 

People were still running around the street, bathed in red and pink and blue and violet from artificial lighting. There was no real reason so many people should be out there, running through a thunderstorm after midnight, but it was true what they said; New York never slept. 

The door opened and another man came in. Tall. Handsome in a way that said _‘do not dare approach me’_. He bore the same dancer’s grace as the other man but seemed older overall. His smile never reached his eyes, but it didn’t have to, not when one was so beautiful. 

The smaller server made room behind the counter. Otabek watched them through the window now, reflections of who they might actually be. Funny, really, because now the lovers really shared one body. The angle made them look like a creature with one torso and four arms, slung around one another in an eternal hug. Their lips melted into one mouth, gasping for each other’s breath. Plato came to mind. 

_“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”_

Well, Otabek guessed those two found it. 

The two men in the corner were different, too. Older, now. If Otabek let his eyes drift, the chessboard between them was a battle plan instead. They kept positioning and repositioning armies, preparing some war that was probably only in their heads. Or Otabek’s. 

The light hit the redhead at a weird angle. Streaks on the glass made it seem as if she had a serpentine’s tail and eagle-like claws. When she caught Otabek staring again, his gaze in the reflection, her eyes were unnaturally dark. He tried to close his own and focus on the music instead, since his mind was playing tricks on him he didn’t like, and Otabek was unsure what to believe at this point. Was the glass lying to him? It had to be. 

Another sip of his coffee and he sighed. So warm. It filled the crevices of his frigid soul, frozen deeper than the weather would explain. Usually, he didn’t even like coffee, but here? It was heaven in a mug. Half an hour passed and Otabek was sleepy, but the rain wasn’t relenting, and a tired driver alongside wet streets was a terrible idea. His coffee was nearly empty by now and he wondered if he should get a new one when movement caught his attention. Across from him, the beautiful, lithe man sat down, elbows on the table, chin rested atop his perched hands. Like a child, asking to play. 

Otabek’s lips twitched into a tiny grin. 

_Hi._

He received a smile in return. 

_Hi._

Otabek turned a little in his seat and looked over to the counter, then back at the man and tilted his head. 

_Don’t you have to work?_

A shrug, one shoulder, as if moving both was too much of a task. Then the man directed his gaze at the other guy. 

_He is taking over right now._

Mouth open just the littlest bit, Otabek nodded. Then, he nodded toward the place the man was already sitting in. 

_Stay here?_

The guy smiled pleasantly and tipped his head, then leaned back a little. 

_Sure._

How were they having an entire conversation in his head? Otabek squinted playfully. He would have liked to ask for his name, but … no talking. Instead, Otabek’s gaze slipped to the name tag on his uniform. Had it always been there? He read _‘Tiger’_ on it in fine, clean handwriting. But no one was actually named _‘Tiger’_ , right? Not even in America. 

A delicate finger trailed over the tag, then pointed at him. 

_You read my name. What is yours?_

Otabek swallowed. He had no name tag. How was he supposed to tell him a name without using words? An idea struck together with the lightning bolt outside, and he pulled his keys out of the squeaky leather jacket. There, still on his keychain from Christmas three years ago, was a tiny teddy bear plush one of his sisters had given him. Otabek took it between two fingertips, careful not to put too much pressure on his valued possession, and rested it between them on the table, eyes towards the other. 

_You can call me ‘bear’._

For a second, it was as if a sneer flickered over the other’s facade, but then it was wiped away by a placated smile and a nod. He leaned forward, looked the streets up and down, then leaned back, and raised his eyebrows at Otabek. 

_Okay. And what are you doing here?_

He wished he had an answer for that, but Otabek shrugged. He was quickly distracted when a plate entered his field of vision. A tiny cake, red as blood, or the girl’s hair, was served to him. He hadn’t asked for it, so Otabek was hesitant to take it. There was no need to worry about manners, though, because Tiger suddenly leaned over, plucked the cake off the plate, glared at the girl, and shoved it into his mouth. The entire muffin-sized thing, gone in two bites. He stuck out his empty tongue to the girl, but Otabek couldn’t figure out if it was to show her the cake was gone or was an insult. She huffed and turned away. 

Otabek had no idea how to interpret that message, and the next moments didn’t help because Tiger kept his eyes on the girl, glaring daggers at her back, while he poutily licked his fingers clean. 

Fuck. Why would he do that? The cake barely touched his hands. Otabek’s stomach tightened, pleasant and overwhelming sensations alike settling low in his gut. From one second to the other, he had Tiger’s full attention again. He seemed alert, somehow, one beautiful, perfect finger still resting on the velvety pillow of a tongue. Tiger’s eyes narrowed the fraction of an inch. Would he be called out as a pervert? 

But then, Tiger’s gaze widened. He kept steady eye contact as he pushed the pink tongue out of his mouth, finger still hesitating. With a curious gaze on Otabek, he pushed it back and forth, just a little, just tiny movements. But they were enough to make Otabek’s mind go crazy. Especially when the muscle suddenly wrapped around the finger, too, and caressed the digit. There was no way this was about cake still, and it was driving him wild. 

One of the men in the corner very audibly cleared his throat, and Tiger quickly pulled his finger back, going so far as to sit down on his hands with a guilty expression. Weird. The old man was sitting with his back to them. He shouldn’t even be able to see Tiger, so why did he assume it was about him? 

From the kitchen area, laughter chimed, high as bells, and it was almost disturbingly wrong. The noise itself was pleasant without a doubt, but over the thunderstorm and smooth jazz, they all created an oppressing silence that shouldn’t be broken for something as simple as giggling. 

Again, Tiger glared in her direction as she came back out and sprung up. He walked around the table and offered his hand to Otabek. Was he asking to be his friend? Sure. Otabek took it and shook with a light grip, intending not to harm but to seal friendship into their bond. But Tiger stared at him as if he was the dumbest person alive, and this time, the other man joined the girl’s cackling laughter. Shit. He was the butt of some joke Otabek didn’t understand. He had done something wrong, something that probably embarrassed Tiger with how red he turned. Otabek had to make it up to him. He didn’t know how he was supposed to do that yet, but he wanted to. Had to. 

So he stood, just as awkward, but he stood. Otabek walked a step towards the man and offered his hand again. He wasn’t sure what the guy had planned, but it was obviously not a handshake, and if Otabek’s behavior had brought ridicule on him, he was ready to suffer the same fate. As both the man and the woman stopped laughing so suddenly, silence tugged on Otabek’s mind, the other grabbed his hand, a tiny smile on his face, and pulled him into the middle of the diner. There, he began to sway. And oh god, he wanted to dance. Otabek was a terrible dancer, had dropped out of classes for it, but he made sure to turn wherever Tiger spun. 

That man was definitely a dancer. Otabek’s feet were rooted to the floor, he wasn’t even swaying, and still, he felt connected to the man in a way he didn’t understand. His gaze kept chasing jade and persian and lime green eyes, changing color with every direction he twirled. No one should be so beautiful. Even though Otabek barely moved a muscle, he was dizzy. 

He grabbed onto Tiger, held his shoulders steady, and smiled. Otabek wanted to lean in, to press a soft kiss to his lips and linger, but that was incredibly inappropriate if he thought about it for more than the initial second, so he stilled. He probably looked like an idiot, standing there, clinging to the man spinning around him as if Otabek himself was moving. But no one laughed this time. The diner was silent, as silent as a thunderstorm raging over gentle music could be. 

Were the girl’s eyes glowing? No, that wasn’t possible. Right? Tiger gave him a little smile, cocky in a way Otabek didn’t understand, and helped him sit down. He brushed long, nimble fingers over Otabek’s arm, a trail of fire burning where the touch had been a moment before, then Otabek was alone in his booth. 

Silence around him. He turned to the window, just to do something. His mug was empty, but the storm continued to haunt the streets, dooming everyone still dumb enough to be outside. Should he order another one? But then Otabek would be unable to sleep later on. If he got to sleep at all. Eyes caught his in the reflection and yet again, the girl was staring. Was he the one getting caught, or did he catch her? And why was she not looking away? God, she was so beautiful. Why was everyone here so beautiful? 

Neon light painted the streets pink and purple still, but there was some flickering. It was so late, how was anyone still awake and hurrying through the rain? A horn blared in the distance. Even at night, New York was always loud. Perhaps, _especially_ at night. 

How long had he been here? An hour? Longer? The two men were still playing chess, but Otabek could no longer envision the Russian spies or wherever they had come from in the story he made up when he entered. They were two generals now, small and round, but sturdy and powerful in a way only soldiers were. Where were they fighting? Figurines moved across the board. It wasn’t chess. Chess had a checkered board with specific movesets. Their figurines sprang in a way he didn’t understand, chasing one another, almost moving on their own. 

Again, the girl caught him staring, so he dragged his gaze away. 

What even was this place? One of the lights flickered, this time inside the small container of a room, and it mirrored the lighting so perfectly, it could have been orchestrated. Or maybe the storm was toying with the electricity. He didn’t understand and he didn’t plan to try. It was too early and too late all at the same time, and Otabek’s stomach growled now that he had seen the tiny velvet cake. Maybe he should ask for another. 

When he moved to glance over at the counter, all three people were looking at him. He opened his lips, just a hair’s width, and the girl started to smile. She did what seemed like a little happy bounce, then tried to turn toward the kitchen, but Tiger grabbed her uniform, pulled her back, and stared at her. The storm was probably fucking with the electricity because a chill crept up Otabek’s body. It was gone the second the girl seemed to relent, though, so maybe Otabek was simply losing his connection to reality. 

Was he getting something to eat now? Should he ask? There were signs listing all sorts of American comfort cuisine: hamburgers, french fries, club sandwiches, meatloaves. But the redhead rolled her shoulders, huffed, and turned. Apparently, he was not going to eat anything. Well. Fine then. 

A minute later, or maybe more—time no longer fit the rules of the universe outside—Tiger appeared next to him with a tray in hand. There was no muffin, no cake, no fat or greasy food, but he was bringing a milkshake. Something to keep Otabek’s throat wet and his time occupied. And there, to the side of it, _was_ a tiny cake. It wouldn’t sate him for the entirety of the night, but it was better than nothing, and it looked perfect. Excellent and flawless in a way food shouldn’t look, except in magazine ads. But this wasn’t an ad. This was a small, traditional diner in the city that never slept. 

He nodded his thanks to the man captivating him with his eyes. Tiger smiled. It looked sharp. Not in the ‘fine dressed, first-class suit’ way, but in the pointy and dangerous one. Why was he only ever serving Otabek, never the couple? Or the generals across the room? Why were there three people working here when nothing ever happened? Did this diner even exist during the day? Otabek couldn’t remember seeing it in the sunshine. 

His head was swimming again; he was probably dehydrated. Maybe some sugar would help. Otabek took a long sip from his shake. Without a doubt, the best one he ever had. It was thick and cool, but not freezing and not frustrating to get through a straw. He had nothing to compare the taste to. Perhaps strawberries or chocolate or mint or vanilla? Every sip seemed to be different, yet every bit was perfect. Tiger watched him drink, so Otabek gave him a stoic thumbs-up. He was too tired for elaborate gestures now, no longer able to play the game where they talked through their eyes. The world was warm and fuzzy and blurry around the edges. Cracking thunder made him tired in a comforting way. He would have opened the window, if that wouldn’t be entirely absurd. 

Otabek watched the street yet again, and finally, the rain seemed to ease up. Soon, he would be able to go out, wipe down his bike, and ride home. Fuck. He startled when Tiger was next to him, this time looking less than pleased. What was going on? He knelt down next to Otabek’s booth and plucked the little cake from his plate. Delicately and between two long fingers, he raised the fine treat to Otabek’s lips. Why was Tiger feeding him? 

Why was everyone staring? 

Even the couple separated, turning to watch them in a moment that should be intimate but wasn’t. Performance anxiety closed strong arms around him, even though all he had to do was bite into the baked good. Otabek looked into the forest eyes and steel stared back at him. 

_Eat it._

Like an order. So Otabek wrapped his lips around it, trying not to suck on the man’s fingers. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it would be impolite. Tiger kept watching him, alert and attentive, and only began to smile when Otabek chewed. Swallowed. 

The redhead jumped up, disrupting the moment. “FUCK YOU! THAT WAS CHEATING!” Her voice like a slap to his face, loud enough to make Otabek’s bones vibrate. No one should be that loud. Not in here. But Tiger spun around, stood straight and proud in a way Oatbek couldn’t grasp with words. 

“No, it was not. You started it.” 

“I didn’t hand-feed him!” 

“He took it willingly.” Tiger looked so smug. Why? Otabek just ate a piece of cake. Why was everyone acting so strange? Why were they talking? Tiger spun back. “Beautiful. You are so beautiful. And you had me worried. Leaving. Leaving when the rain stops. I don’t think so, darling. I have been waiting for you. For years. For _years._ And you are so clever, stepping over all my little traps, aren’t you?” The back of his hand was now caressing Otabek’s cheek, petting him like an animal that needed soothing. 

“I … what? Traps?” 

“Shhh now. You don’t have to think about that anymore, my love.” Tiger climbed onto his lap, folded himself there to snuggly fit against Otabek’s side. And even though he had no idea what was going on, Otabek reckoned they melted into one another like matching puzzle pieces. “Nothing to worry anymore in that handsome head of yours, baby.” 

Otabek blinked. My love? Baby? What was going on? He had never spoken to this man! But … but strangely, he couldn’t find it in himself to stand up and leave or to push Tiger off his lap. 

“Tell me your name.” 

“Otabek.” It wasn’t by choice; he spoke before his brain even registered the request. What? 

“The full name.” 

“Otabek Altin.” Why would he tell that to a stranger? Especially a stranger acting as weirdly as this one did? 

Tiger leaned in and nibbled his earlobe. And again, it should be disgusting, should be too much—overwhelming, really, and invasive—but Otabek was comforted. “Otabek Altin.” Warmth flooded him, making every nerve tingle. Fire licked his insides, but he wasn’t burning up. Not yet. It was a threat, though, and he instinctively recognized it. “You can call me Yura.” 

“Is that your real name?” Somehow, it felt important to ask. 

The guy on his lap laughed. “Of course, not, dummy. Names hold power. But it is close, I will tell you that much. You don’t need to worry, though. You know all you need to know. Call me Yura when you need me.” Kisses over his jawline, and Otabek’s eyes were wet and hazy, as if he cut onions not long ago. 

“What are you .. why …” 

“Shhh, baby.” Lips fell on his. Otabek caught himself leaning in, reciprocating, even though the kiss was unsolicited. Yura tasted of honey, like cake and chocolate and berry pies. He shouldn’t be able to have lips like a bakery, but his kisses were milk and freshwater on Otabek’s tongue. How had his tongue gotten there? 

“I … I need to go home.” 

Yura laughed, the same way adults laughed when children said something unintelligible. “Yeah, baby. Later. Don’t worry. I’ll take you home. But for now, you’ll stay here and wait until my shift is over, understood?” Otabek nodded. Why did he nod? “And don’t play with Mila. She is a very naughty demon, and I don’t want any scratches on my beautiful boy, alright?” Mila was the redhead, he did not need to ask. It was as if the knowledge surfaced from the depths of his own being, unprompted. “So, you are going to sit here and wait for me, okay, baby? And when I’m done, you’ll help me onto that ridiculous motorcycle of yours, and _then,_ I’m going to show you your new life.” 

“My new …” 

He trailed off when ideas, thoughts, memories flooded his mind, none of them his own. There was an apartment, downtown, near central park. And strawberry fields and a cat and a lot of flowers. There was giggling and a breeze caressed his skin. Visions of dancing during summer nights, patches of four-leaved clovers, stone circles, ice cream, and crystal necklaces. 

“Shhh, now, darling.” Yura giggled lightly. “Teddy. Shhh, now. It’ll be okay. It will all be okay.” 

The rain outside stopped and so did the flickering of the neon sign. They were left with music from another era and creatures from another place. Otabek wanted to ask, but the answers were already in his head. Maybe they had been all along. 

“Good boy.” Yura pressed Otabek’s head against his chest, kissed his temple. “You were kind to me, so I will take good care of you.” 

Otabek thought about the warm coffee and the gentle smiles, the lightheaded dancing and the cake next to his melting milkshake. 

His head dropped into the man’s hold. 

For some reason, he believed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't typically like fantasy, but the idea of Fae!Yura wasn't anything I could get over. So here you go, a not-smutty fantasy one shot.  
> If you enjoyed it, let me know! ♥ Oh! And did you recognize the other people around them? Let me know what you guess!
>
>> Thank you, as always, to my wonderful editor [Taedae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taedae/pseuds/Taedae), and to you as the reader.  
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/venom-for-free)[, Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/venom_for_free/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/venom_for_free)


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